‘No!’ cried Henry at the top of his voice. In the hall, the old men started to call out, frightened by the sudden clamour in their usually serene environment. ‘Not in my infirmary!’
‘My God!’ breathed Alan, crossing himself slowly. ‘My God!’
‘Well,’ said Bartholomew, meeting Michael’s eyes. ‘Our killer is growing bold. Now he is taking his victims in broad daylight inside the priory itself, while Henry was only a short distance away.’
‘But I saw no one,’ whispered Henry. ‘I do not know how long I slept, but it could not have been more than a few moments. What have I done?’
‘You have done nothing,’ said Alan grimly. ‘It is not you who is prowling around killing sick men as they sleep.’
‘I shall never forgive myself!’ whispered Henry, his face as white as snow. ‘If I had not been so weak, I would have stayed awake and this would never have happened.’
‘You are assuming you would have been able to prevent it,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘Your exhaustion probably saved your life, because the murderer is a ruthless man who would have killed you, too. You would not have been able to save Thomas, even if you had been awake.’
‘And I would have had a good deal more to grieve about,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘Thomas was not one of Ely’s better monks, but you are. The priory would have lost a far greater prize in you than in Thomas.’
‘No!’ objected Henry, distressed. ‘You cannot say such things! Thomas occasionally gave me wine from his own cellars for my patients. He was not all bad.’
‘And why did he do that?’ demanded Michael archly. ‘Because it was past its best and he could not bring himself to pour it down the drain?’
Henry swallowed miserably. ‘That is not the point. He thought of the sick when he had supplies to share. But I cannot believe this has happened. I heard nothing and saw nothing.’
‘I am sure you did not,’ said Michael grimly. ‘This killer is too good to leave witnesses or clues.’
Chapter 8
While Henry went to calm his elderly patients, and Alan redoubled the fervour of his prayers over Thomas’s bloated corpse, Bartholomew and Michael sat in the infirmary chapel, their thoughts in turmoil. They talked in low voices, so that no one could hear.
‘We were virtually present when this happened,’ whispered Michael, his green eyes huge in his white face. ‘This monster took his fifth victim while we were right outside the building!’
‘I wonder whether we saw him,’ mused Bartholomew, trying to recall what he had seen as they had lingered with de Lisle and Ralph in the Dark Cloister. ‘I spotted Symon, then Julian, then Welles and finally Alan. What about you?’
Michael shook his head slowly. ‘No killer would have gone about his grisly business knowing we had actually watched him enter the hospital. He would have crept in through the back door, not through the Dark Cloister.’
‘Do not be so sure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He killed Robert and carried the body to the Monks’ Hythe in broad daylight. He is not a timid fellow, and he seems oblivious of the fact that he might be caught.’
‘There is a difference this time, though,’ said Michael, staring down the hall to where Thomas’s mammoth form could just be seen, swathed in a white sheet, with Alan kneeling next to it. ‘He left the murder weapon. He did not do that with the others. That must help us.’
Bartholomew had noticed. ‘It was the paring knife I saw earlier, when Henry, Julian and Welles were preparing the inmates’ breakfasts. It disappeared briefly, and I assumed Julian had stolen it, but it had been replaced on the workbench before we left for the refectory.’
‘Julian,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘We have always agreed he was a good suspect. He has a fascination with sharp objects, and now you say you saw him in possession of the murder weapon not an hour before this crime was committed.’
‘The only problem with that notion is that the paring knife is not what killed the other victims.’
Michael regarded him doubtfully. ‘How can you tell?’
‘Because the injury on Thomas is a different shape. You may recall I told you that the others’ wounds were made with something long and thin, perhaps rather like a nail.’
‘So, what are you saying? That Julian killed Thomas, but not Glovere, Chaloner, Haywarde and Robert?’
Bartholomew spread his hands. ‘Julian saw Robert’s corpse, if not the others, and may have overheard us discussing how these men were killed. It is not wholly beyond the realm of possibility that he wanted to try it out for himself, and used the much-detested sub-prior for his experiment.’
‘Should we arrest him, then?’
Bartholomew was uncertain. ‘The problem with doing that is that we have no incontrovertible proof that he is the killer. Do not forget that we also saw Symon enter the infirmary. In fact, the librarian was the first of a number of people to wander in, and he would have had plenty of time to kill his sub-prior – he was all alone with him while Henry slept and before Julian and Welles arrived for work. He has been lurking near Thomas’s sickbed all day, and he also was in the workroom when I first noticed the presence of that paring knife.’
‘Welles?’ suggested Michael. ‘What about him as our cunning criminal?’ He rubbed his face hard. ‘Lord, Matt! What am I saying? Welles is a nice lad – cheerful and hardworking. Why would he suddenly turn killer?’
‘Perhaps some of Julian’s personality wore off on him. It is not inconceivable that spending day after day in company like that may have a polluting effect.’
‘There is Alan, too,’ said Michael softly, looking over at the Prior, who was shifting uncomfortably next to Thomas, finding the stone floor hard on his knees. ‘He was the last person to enter the hospital, and the one who woke Henry. We must not leave him off our list of suspects.’
‘He was the last one you saw enter the hospital,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘You said yourself that the culprit may have reached Thomas by going through the back door.’
‘Damn!’ breathed Michael, disheartened. ‘We are no further forward now than we were before this maniac claimed a fifth soul to add to his collection. We have another victim who was disliked by most people who knew him, and we have a knife conveniently available. How am I supposed to discover who did this, when virtually anyone in the entire monastery could be responsible?’
‘Not just in the monastery, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There are townsfolk who may have heard of Thomas’s vulnerable state, too. There are at least a hundred layfolk employed here – one of them may be the killer, or may have helped the killer gain access to Thomas. And do not forget that the Outer Hostry is bulging at the seams with visitors, too.’
He stopped speaking when Alan entered the chapel, his sandalled feet tapping softly on the worn flagstones. The Prior genuflected in front of the altar, and gazed at it for a moment, his thin face haggard.
‘Tell us what happened, exactly,’ said Michael, watching him. ‘Did you see Thomas dead and go to rouse the slumbering Henry?’
‘Good gracious, no!’ exclaimed Alan, seeming appalled by that notion. ‘I glimpsed Thomas lying still and silent through the open door of his chamber, but assumed he was sleeping. I was actually looking for Henry – to ask him for a report on Thomas’s health. When I saw Henry dozing in the room next door, I went to shake his shoulder. I did not think he had fallen asleep intentionally, and imagined he would prefer to be awake when Thomas was so ill.’
‘It is that cure for wrinkles you promised Bishop Northburgh,’ said Bartholomew, rather accusingly. ‘Henry is working feverishly on it, and it is too much for him with his other duties, too.’
‘Perhaps you are right,’ acknowledged Alan sheepishly. ‘I thought he could manage – he is an excellent physician, after all. Anyway, I touched him on the shoulder and he jolted upright, looking as confused and startled as a scalded cat. He sat for a moment blinking and staring, then seemed to recall that he was supposed to be caring for a sick patient. He all but shoved me out of the way in his haste to reach the next room. It was clear he had been dozing for some time.’